


you've got the music in you, baby

by salvadore



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 05:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16988910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvadore/pseuds/salvadore
Summary: Coming up through the ballet scene, being at the same academies and try-outs, it was impossible to not have the same hero. Shiro. He dominated the small pool of popularity for premier danseurs. Everyone had a story of seeing him on stage. He was idolized and inescapable.But he’s here, in Keith’s bed. And he loves Keith.





	you've got the music in you, baby

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song Apocalypse by Cigarettes After Sex. Which I suggest as good mood music for reading this.

Keith wakes up to the sound of his name on Shiro’s lips, and the shifting of the mattress beneath them. Keith squeezes his eyes shut, and considers pretending Shiro calling his name was his imagination. That the press of Shiro’s hand, flat and blanketing on his ribs, and the weight of one of his legs slung casually over Keith’s is all only a dream come true. 

It’s a hard line of thought to maintain when Shiro shifts restlessly, moving the whole mattress again. Reminding Keith that he gets to have the reality of Shiro in his bed - the good and the bad. 

A groan escapes Shiro. Unfortunately it’s not a satisfied one like those that punched out of him an hour ago when Keith had spread his legs, marvelling at the returned range of motion. He’d bitten back a thought about how Shiro’s stretch was better than some he’d seen in last semester’s modern dance class by putting his whole mouth to the meat of Shiro’s thighs before, pressing and biting there while Shiro writhed. Later Keith had blown Shiro enthusiastically. 

“Keith,” Shiro repeats, and he’s being kind enough to speak softly. Keith can feel his breath on his skin and it makes him shiver. It’s not the same seductive sound from earlier, but as much as Keith would like to sleep, he likes it when Shiro says his name.

The problem is, Keith's mattress is uncomfortable. It’s a fact that he is well aware of and he knows the solution to it. That solution just happens to be outside of his budget. On his budget it’s lucky he even has a mattress, let alone a frame or a box-spring. He bought the mattress for thirty bucks off the previous tenant, despite the guy’s disbelieving look. He’d even tried to talk Keith out of it, but in the end he took the money. And Keith didn’t have to choose between groceries or sleeping on the floor.

Rock, Keith’s mattress, and Keith stuck in the middle. 

The mattress shakes under the motion of Shiro rolling over, looking for a more comfortable position. His ankle hooks on Keith's knee even as the rest of his body is contorted so he can rest with his weight flat on his back. He’s probably half on the floor. 

“I’ve slept on futons more comfortable than this,” Shiro says. And his complaint is fair, Keith knows, it really is. Keith can already feel the tension in his own shoulders. If he doesn’t get up soon then by the time he makes it to evening rehearsal his muscles are going to be a tight coil and he’s going to have to work twice as hard to be limber enough for the routine. 

“It saves space,” Keith lies. It’s through his teeth, and Shiro knows it. They’ve had this argument about a dozen different ways. 

“A box-spring wouldn’t take up that much room,” Shiro replies. His fingers catch on Keith’s nipple as he drags his fingers across Keith’s chest. Keith arches up into the touch. 

“I can put the bare mattress up against the wall. Gives me extra space for practice.” 

“In an old building like this? I’m sure your neighbors love hearing you leaping around on the hardwood floor.” 

Shiro rolls again, and Keith finally gives up. He opens his eyes as Shiro seems to decide to use him as a human body pillow. Shiro is heavy where he presses his bare chest on top of Keith’s. But he’s so warm, and he’s carefully reaching out and brushing the hair from Keith’s eyes. The gesture is soothing, and Keith wants to keep it, so he wraps an arm loosely around Shiro’s waist. 

Shiro chuckles. Keith can feel it in his own chest. He adds, “Besides that’s what studio space is for,” and his lips brush Keith’s eyebrow. 

Humming a soft sound is the best Keith can do in response, unwilling to continue disagreeing. He turns his lips to Shiro’s throat and presses the sound there. He doesn’t want to admit that if he takes anymore hours at the studio two things will happen - Pidge will start eying him closely, again, while leaving him articles about overworking and injuries. And Lance will direct any complaints about his form at practice to Keith, claiming he was ‘hogging the studio.’ 

Keith trails fingers down Shiro’s spine. “We can go back to your place.” 

He knows Shiro wants to help. He means well in his teasing, and would take Keith shopping if asked. He’d probably settle for Keith promising to spend his FAFSA refund on himself for once. It’s not a promise that Keith can make though. That money is earmarked for an anniversary gift for Shiro, and he’s not going to change his mind about that. 

“My place is too far from campus,” Shiro says. Keith can hear the sheepishness in Shiro’s voice when he admits, “For all my complaining, I’m actually more worried about you.”

Keith wishes he wouldn’t; he’s used to the way he lives. He’s built a routine. Keith usually jogs back to campus, warming up under his layers of coats, anyway. It saves on bus fare and gets him ready to stretch faster. He think the extension in his jetés are longer on days when he’s run most of the way there. 

He doesn’t want to mention it because he doesn’t want to see the crease of concern in Shiro’s forehead. Or worse, the tight smile that’s slipped onto Shiro’s face in recent months when he’s been faced with things he can’t currently do. Jogging with Keith to campus, Keith knows, is something Shiro would love. But it’s not an option. He’s got strict orders from his rehabilitation specialist. And Keith’s sure nothing they’ve done this afternoon would’ve been approved. 

Keith knows Shiro is tired of being treated as fragile. He’s willing to let Shiro lead on this one, and tell him what he needs. But Keith would also rather sacrifice a few bucks, and extra time in the studio for rehearsal, than make Shiro sleep here uncomfortably. He just doesn’t know how to say that. 

Keith pulls back so he can see Shiro’s face. And he is smiling, a soft one. There’s a questioning look starting to take over, and it’s making a wrinkle appear across Shiro’s brow. There’s not a right answer to that unspoken question. Keith’s mind is straying toward time, and aches, and splints, and and the big line of red tissue on Shiro’s hip from his surgery. Keith has run his fingers across it hundreds of times. 

But mostly, Keith looks at Shiro, looks into his eyes and feels fingers and legs curling around and holding him, and thinks it’s mind blowing having Shiro here. Impossible odds coming together.

He gets why Lance has pouted over their relationship on more than one occasion. Coming up through the ballet scene, being at the same academies and try-outs, it was impossible to not have the same hero. Shiro. He dominated the small pool of popularity for premier danseurs. Everyone had a story of seeing him on stage. He was idolized and inescapable. 

But he’s here, in Keith’s bed. And he loves Keith. 

Keith knows Shiro remembers the first time they met. They’d passed each other on a crosswalk. Keith had been wearing headphones and bundled up against the new experience of an East coast winter. He hadn’t even noticed Shiro. 

Shiro though, had done a double take. That’s how he’d described it to Keith later. Catching sight of Keith only out of the corner of his eye and turning, wondering if it was Keith. Shiro had described it as, “Ridiculous - even if it was you what an impression I was making, chasing you down the street because I saw you in a recital?” 

But he had. There had been so many people on the street, Keith doesn’t know how Shiro recognized him. He didn’t understand why Shiro, who was running late, would go out of his way. The sound of a car horn honking had made Keith look up, and he’d seen Shiro, hand raised in apology to the driver hurrying toward him. 

And Keith would never not recognize him. 

He’d been stunned when Shiro reached out. He’d caught Keith by the elbow, and said, “Keith, right? You were in Kolivan’s October production?”

"Shiro," Keith breathed the nickname out, and was immediately mortified. Course correcting and stammering as he said, “Shirogane, I mean.” He couldn’t believe Shiro was standing before him. Shiro’s face had broken into a huge grin. “You were there? You saw my show?”

"I thought you were amazing," Shiro had said. 

Now he hums back at Keith, a similar sound to Keith’s and there’s a twinkle in his eye. He’s teasing as he presses their foreheads together. 

“What are you thinking about?” Shiro asks. His fingers tap gently against Keith’s skin, revealing his restlessness. Licking his lower lip, Keith considers Shiro’s smile, the angle of his eyebrows and the confessed worry. Shiro’s brown eyes are an open book. It’s not always the case, there’d been weeks where he’d hid pain levels and fears, and Keith had just done what he could. Been there at Shiro’s side, asking what he wanted to do. 

But here, in the safety of Keith’s apartment, removed if for a time from the hard decisions that might be waiting outside; Shiro lays himself bare for Keith. 

“Did you know I saw you in that production of Midsummer’s Night Dream?” Keith asks. It’s not a direct answer to Shiro’s question, but it is a better one. Shiro gives so much, Keith wants to give him this. 

Shiro looks surprised, but still smiling, still happy. His fingers comb through Keith’s hair. “When I played Puck?” 

Keith smiles back. “Yeah. It was in New York, one of the school tour stops.” 

“How’d a bunch of Texans like you and your dad catch me in New York?” Shiro asks. 

Keith loves the shine in Shiro’s eye, and has to brush his fingers against his temple, across his eyebrow and up his forehead. He brushes his fingers through Shiro’s hair and teases back, “They have airplanes in Texas.” 

“You said your dad didn’t like to fly though.” Shiro kisses the corner of Keith’s mouth, a gentle, reassuring touch. But it doesn’t interrupt. 

Keith nods. “Yeah, but I was thinking about quitting. I didn’t want to do ballet anymore. I wanted to fly like mom, or maybe be a firefighter.” Keith shrugs here. He’d been twelve, he would’ve wanted to be an astronaut or a zookeeper by the next week. It was all childhood boredom and wanting to get out of the rigor of practices, and away from kids with the newest gear and a snotty attitude to match. 

“I think he wanted to take me to a production on Broadway or something.” Keith picks apart the thought process aloud, “Or maybe he just figured New York would be the place to go, and he’d figure it out when we got there.” 

“And you ended up at my show?” 

Keith nods. “You were wearing that crown of laurels,” he says. “I remember how you smiled when you appeared -”

“I was wearing so much eyeliner, and so much gold paint,” Shiro says, interrupting and laughing at himself suddenly and joyfully. 

Keith kisses him so he can keep the chant of, you were beautiful, you were beautiful, to himself. Shiro had been. They’d bronzed his cheeks, exuentating their sharpness when he was nineteen. His chest and shoulders weren’t as broad as they are now, but he’d seemed so much larger than life. Painted gold and being carried and spun by the dancer playing Oberon. 

He had shone so bright; Keith never forgot that. 

“Did we meet back then?” Shiro asks. He rubs his hand over Keith’s bicep where he’s starting to feel the cool of the room on his arm. The sheet has long been kicked down around their ankles by Shiro’s restlessness, but Keith’s afraid that if he gathers it around them then he won’t be able to leave. Sore back and rehearsal be damned, he’d let Shiro’s arms cradle him and fall right back to sleep. 

“My dad brought flowers,” Keith says. “He carried them the whole way to the theatre and held them through the whole performance.” 

Keith kisses the Shiro’s cheek. He closes his eyes and remembers being younger, “And then he gave them to me. Steered me past the crew and all the way to you.” 

It was less of a meeting than that day out on the street. The cast had been sopping with sweat and visibly weary from the performance. Keith remembers how Shiro had said, “Yes, I have a moment,” and Keith had looked up at him from behind the bouquet of carnations and baby’s breath. Shiro had been kind and still so bright even out from under the stage lights. Keith had blushed to the tips of his ears. 

Keith kisses Shiro like he can impart these memories without having to say them. As if he can press his fingers to the right places on Shiro’s skin, and the feeling of wonder and drive he’d felt then will pour through. Like the heat of their mouths can speak for him. His toes curl as he arches up against Shiro, hard muscle meeting Keith’s inner thighs as he squeezes his legs against Shiro’s hips. 

After the surprise at the abrupt change from speaking to kissing, Shiro gives as good as Keith in the kiss. Hands in Keith’s hair, holding him once he’d caught up. 

But Shiro can only be deterred for so long. He turns the kiss chaste and presses one, two, three times in small kisses before he pulls back. He looks at Keith like he knows he missed something, and can uncover the heart of it if Keith will allow it.

Keith doesn’t know what he sees. But Shiro’s fingers pet his skin gently, and he stops searching Keith’s face and looks like he’s settling on a plan. Keith would rather keep kissing, and he tries to arch up and chase after Shiro’s mouth. It makes Shiro laugh. 

“Come on,” Shiro says, words pressed to Keith's lips. He curls his fingers around Keith’s wrists and slowly untangles them, joy bare on his face as he says, “Before you have to go. Show me your routine.”

“We don’t have to,” Keith says, fighting the way Shiro is pinning him, holding them apart. They’re both panting and Keith would rather grind against him than stretch into a plie. “There’s so much travelling in the choreography,” Keith reasons. “There isn’t enough room.”

“We’ll just push the mattress up against the wall,” Shiro teases, using Keith’s words against him. He kisses Keith’s cheek to lessen the sting of having done so. 

Keith acquiesces, though he grumbles about it. He leans against Shiro, drags his hands against his skin at every opportunity. And Shiro leans into it, letting Keith push him against the mattress once they’ve stood it against the wall. Shiro moans when Keith darts in daringly, sucking at the skin at his collar. 

“Come on,” Shiro says again, a whine in his voice this time. He reluctantly pushes Keith off. “Show me what you’ve got.” 

His eyes turn serious. Keith watches him right back as he moves through the necessary stretches to do a shallow performance of the routine. He’s not going full out - Shiro was right, the walls and floors in the building do little to soak up sound. 

When he’s ready, Keith picks a point on the mattress, just above Shiro’s shoulder. His eyes focus on the pattern as he hops up, beginning to spin into a pirouette. He spots himself with it, head whipping around and around to come back toward Shiro. His whole world in that moment on the ball of his foot, the axis of his spin as he turns and turns. Always turning back to look at Shiro.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my third dance fic in 2018, and I think that means that it's a thematic trilogy. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this. At the time of posting this I haven't started the finale season yet, but I wanted to do something to celebrate the joy and lovely memories the show has given me over the years. Thank you to those who helped me out with writing this, supported me, and helped with edits, and particularly N for all your support. This likely wouldn't exist without your encouragement. Thank you ♥


End file.
